Thames Gateway 01; Wide Open

by Nicola Barker

  “No. I’m right-handed, it’s just that I do everything with my left hand.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s one of my projects.”

  Ronny was perplexed. He transformed his attempted shake into a little wave. “Well, it was nice to meet you.”

  “Yes.”

  He headed over towards the embankment. He didn’t turn around again. If he had, he would have seen the other Ronny go and bury his wasp in the soil at the edge of the bridge and then construct, one-handed and with considerable difficulty, a small marker out of a lolly stick and a piece of dried grass. Next he would have seen him walk back to the centre of the bridge and wash his hands in a puddle.

  When he’d completed his tasks, however, instead of returning to his original post, the other Ronny moved to the opposite side of the bridge, the side facing into London, and stood and gazed down the hard shoulder. He saw Ronny climb into his green Volvo, indicate, pull off.

  He felt an impulse to wave but defeated it. Instead he touched the wrist of his right hand with his left hand as if expecting to find something there, but the wrist was bare. He smiled gently, peered over his shoulder towards the cardboard box, cleared his throat and then shoved his cold wet fingers deep into his pockets.

  ∨ Wide Open ∧

  Two

  Laura had imagined herself to be in love with Nathan for the first three years of her five-year tenure in Lost Property. Truly in love. A dizzy, silly, confusing, confounding love. Love like a wave (foam tipped), a wall (straight up and down, solid, well-built), like a wheel (no beginning, no end), like a whale.

  A giant love, in other words. A great big whopper of a love. Love. Secret and hairy and cinnamon-flavoured. A hot, sharp-shooting sherbert love. A mishy-mushy, hishy-hushy, splishy-sploshy kind of love.

  But the love had been unreciprocated and now she couldn’t understand how she had felt it or what it had consisted of, how it had looked or tasted or smelled. It had been lost, her love, it had been pushed into a file, into a drawer, under a table, into an old suitcase. It had fallen between the folds of a badly closed umbrella. Her love had become another piece of lost property, floating around the office, no one seeing it or caring about it, no one to claim it.

  They went out for a drink together, twice, after work. Nathan liked her, clearly, but not in that way. Not enough. Then she found out that he was seeing someone else. A social worker called Margery. She thought Margery such an antiquated name. She thought Margery must be sixty years old with blue hair and a beard. But Margery actually looked like Glenda Jackson. Striking, short-haired and with teeth that needed containing, that needed a brace. Nathan never mentioned Margery at work. Thank God. And so Laura, rejected Laura, stupid Laura, blonde-haired, green-eyed, snub-nosed little Laura had to force herself to be nice to him. And in the moist dankness of that niceness a worm of hatred unravelled itself. It slid about. It sniffed, blindly, in Nathan’s direction. It was soft and vile and slightly, very slightly, ever so, ever so slightly whiffy.

  The worm turned. The love withered. And left behind in its stead were only suds and offal and litter and a nasty, dirty bath ring which encircled Laura’s heart and made all her deepest, sweetest sensations of yesteryear seem like something empty and ugfy and pathetic.

  Her love was a glob of phlegm on life’s high street. It was slippery and slimy and not especially useful. Her love was cancelled. It was all washed out. It was over. Over. Over.

  Laura wanted to scorn Nathan, to reject and rebuff, but she was a sensible woman and she knew that he didn’t even have the first idea about all the things she’d been feeling, so what was the point?

  Instead she made an effort to be nice. A huge effort. If she offered to make her workmates tea she’d ask Nathan first whether he fancied a cup. She always wrote his name at the beginning of the postcards she sent to the office from holidays abroad. She always remembered the date of his birthday. 12 November. Scorpio. She always did a collection. She always saved the hazelnut whirl for him when someone brought chocolates to work. That was his favourite chocolate. In fact, she made all the silly, goofy gestures she’d never made before, when she’d really, truly loved him.

  And Nathan always took the hazelnut whirl with good grace. It was his least favourite chocolate but Laura seemed to get pleasure from giving it to him. So he took it.

  Did he know how she’d loved him? He didn’t think about it. His mind was elsewhere. Sometimes he felt a vague sense of unease when she was near him, when she smiled at him – too brightly – or when she came over especially just to say goodnight.

  On these occasions he felt like she was overcompensating – which she was – and although he didn’t know; what she was overcompensating for, he imagined that it was for something secret and sad and untoward.

  He was right. That’s just how it was. Three years of dreams. Three years of watching and waiting, of apprehending and misapprehending. All that time wasted. All that time.

  ♦

  He was a softie. Sometimes he cried over the forgotten things. The special things that he kept in the special places. The bangles with loving inscriptions, the tufts of hair in golden lockets, the small dinners in plastic bags. Meals for one, and the one had forgotten them.

  Sometimes he came into work early to walk around and feel the forgotten things, to try and remember them. At night he listed forgotten things in his dreams. He lovingly dwelt on the eight hundred and forty-seven black umbrellas, the fifteen hundred and sixty-two single gloves, the books, the pairs of glasses, the knick-knacks, the scarves, the hats. Unclaimed. Everything. All forgotten.

  Laura caught him once, after hours, in the storeroom, huddled in a corner, poring over something. She drew close and then softly spoke his name.

  “Nathan?”

  He sprang up, knocking pictures to the floor, a pile of photographs – polaroids mainly, but some others too, black and white photos. She knelt down to help him retrieve them.

  “Isn’t it funny,” she asked gently, “the things people leave behind?”

  And in her hands she saw photographs of a little boy with brown eyes and a mop of hair, naked. And there was something wrong with the photos.

  “It is strange,” Nathan muttered, his face reddening. “It is strange.”

  And so it was.

  ♦

  “Hello?”

  Laura looked up, trying to make eye-contact with the next cus-f tomer in a long line. It was Friday, a busy day, usually She I focused on a tall man with a beard and dark hair. He was holding a large cardboard box and a white form that he’d just filled in.

  “Who’s next?”

  She waved at him. The man hesitated and then came over. He put the box down on the floor beside him. “The thing is,” he said, “I was hoping to speak to…”

  He pointed towards Nathan who was in the furthest cubicle, collecting the fee and giving receipts.

  “You have to see me first.”

  Laura put out her hand to take the man’s form. He had terrible writing. She stared at it for a while.

  “You’ve lost a watch?”

  He nodded.

  “When did you lose it?”

  The man felt his right wrist with his left hand. “Uh…very recently.”

  “Okay Fine. Hold on a second.”

  Laura stood up and went over to the computer. She keyed in the relevant details. Nothing.

  She returned to the counter. “I’m sorry. There’s nothing on file at the moment. But don’t lose heart. It might be a few days before it’s finally handed in. Can you give me any extra details about the watch?”

  The man shook his head.

  “Make?”

  He shook his head.

  “How old was it?”

  “Old.”

  “Was it valuable?”

  “I don’t mink so.”

  “Well perhaps you could draw an illustration of the face so that if it’s handed in we might have some means of recognizing it.”

  Th
e man tried to oblige her. With his left hand he drew a traditional clock face with all the numbers. Laura couldn’t stop herself from smiling.

  “You’ve got a lovely smile,” the man said.

  She floundered. He looked straight into her eyes. “I like the way that you said don’t lose heart before. I loved that.”

  Then he paused. “I’m sorry,” he scratched his cheek, “I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”

  “I’m not embarrassed.”

  But she was. There was something about his salad-green eyes that disgusted her. Something not right. An emptiness. He was like an old sandwich with curling edges, left on a plate at a pointless leaving party which nobody wished to attend.

  She handed him back his form and spoke rather abruptly. “It’s a two pound fee. You pay at the counter.”

  “Thank you.” The man nodded, took the form, bent down to retrieve his box, then staggered over towards Nathan’s cubicle. He had a funny walk, Laura observed. Her next customer arrived and passed over his slip. She took it, but her eyes were focused, with some disquiet, on Nathan and on the man.

  Nathan had been thinking about his lunch. His stomach had been growling. He checked his watch. Someone handed him a slip.

  “That’ll be two pounds, please.”

  He looked up. His jaw went slack.

  “It’s me,” the other Ronny said, “like a bad coin. Back again.”

  Nathan snapped up his jaw and struggled to contain his surprise. “You shouldn’t have come back,” he said quietly, “not so soon. Things are too complicated.”

  “Why?” the other Ronny looked confounded, “Why are things complicated?”

  Nathan cleared his throat. “I’ll have to tell Margery.”

  “Margery who?”

  Nathan passed his hand in front of his eyes. “Don’t kid around with me, James.”

  “No. Not James. I’m Ronny. Remember? Call me Ronny.”

  Nathan shifted on his stool. “Don’t be stupid…” he was virtually whispering now, “we’ve already had this conversation.”

  The other Ronny smiled. His teeth were immaculate. “I’m Ronny,” he said softly. “You gave me his shoes.”

  “What?” Nathan looked mortified.

  “His shoes. You gave them to me. Three weeks ago.”

  Nathan put his hand to his face. His cheeks were hot. He looked around, vaguely panicked. He caught Laura’s eye. His blush went deeper.

  “They weren’t his shoes. You have no reason to think that they were. Anyway, I told you quite clearly last time you came here that if you returned then I would have to call Margery. I made a promise.”

  The other Ronny nodded. He obviously remembered. “You did tell me that last time, but then you went straight ahead and gave me his shoes. His white shoes.”

  There was no hint of malice in the other Ronny’s voice. Nathan made his hands into fists on his lap. He knew that there was never malice. Not ever. He took a deep breath. “I covered up for you before. Not again. And they weren’t his shoes. They’re your shoes.”

  “He told me they were his shoes. He said he wore them for work. He’s shorter than me but his feet are larger than mine. I have very small feet.”

  Nathan inspected the other Ronny’s form.

  “You want a watch?”

  “Yes. I believe I lost one.”

  “Here…”

  Nathan began to unfasten the strap to his own watch. The other Ronny stared, unblinking. “He said he hadn’t seen you in over ten years. He’s got alopecia.”

  Nathan unfastened the watch and held it out in the palm of his hand. It was a gold watch, an old watch.

  “He was driving a green Volvo.”

  “Take the watch.”

  Nathan proffered the watch. The other Ronny took it.

  “It’s gold.”

  “Yes.”

  “It must be worth a lot.”

  “It’s mine. I want you to have it.”

  Nathan glanced up and over towards Laura. She was momentarily occupied.

  “You’d better go.”

  “You don’t believe me, do you?” The other Ronny was frowning. “You don’t believe I actually met him.”

  Nathan shook his head. “No.”

  “Maybe I dreamed it.”

  Nathan shrugged. “Maybe.”

  “Thanks for the watch.”

  The other Ronny smiled again. He took a step backwards. He’d deposited his cardboard box on Nathan’s counter. Nathan scrutinized the box.

  “What is this?”

  “Nothing. Look after it for me. Try not to open it.”

  Nathan stood up and touched the box. “What’s inside?”

  “Everything.”

  Nathan scowled. “Don’t be stupid.”

  The other Ronny turned to leave. Nathan couldn’t stop himself.

  “Where will you go?” he asked.

  The other Ronny scratched his nose. “Manchester.”

  “Why Manchester?”

  He just shrugged.

  Nathan took a deep breath, then expelled it nervously. He wished he hadn’t asked. Now he’d be obliged to tell Margery where the other Ronny was, if he was going to be honest. And he wanted to be.

  “Thanks.”

  The other Ronny limped out. Nathan snatched up his form, screwed it into a ball and pushed it into his jacket pocket. Then he picked up the box – it was heavy – deserted his post, walked into the men’s toilets, dumped it down next to the latrines, walked a few steps, rested both his palms on the sink, stared at himself in the mirror and retched. He retched again but nothing came out. Just air. Just gas.

  A retch, he thought, is like a dry fuck.

  Oh Christ. Oh Christ. Where did that come from?

  ∨ Wide Open ∧

  Three

  “The water’s flat and brown. The sand’s made of shells. It’s been raped by those whelk farmers. The sea, I mean. Raped by those fucking seafood fishermen.”

  Lily pointed towards the sea. The man she spoke to was fat and smelled of fish, but he had a good tan and a big prick. He was on his way to the beach.

  Lily sat astride her mountain bike. She was seventeen. She was conducting her own little war, but she didn’t know what she was fighting about, not yet, at least. She had widely spaced eyes. At school they’d called her Miss Piggy, because of her strange eyes and because her parents ran a farm. They kept wild boar. Although, as Lily often observed, wild boar actually had eyes that were quite extraordinarily close together.

  Lily had wide eyes and a flat nose and a gap between her front teeth. It was as though her face had hardly bothered fitting together. But the skin had been persistent. It had stretched and stretched until it finally joined up, until it met in the middle. It had touched bases. It was one of those faces.

  Lily pointed. “That’s the Swale. It’s a nature reserve.”

  “I know.”

  The man looked uncomfortable. He made as if to surreptitiously cover over his genitals with his hands. Lily noticed. “You’ve nothing there that I haven’t seen countless times before.”

  He grimaced.

  She rubbed her arms. “Fuck, it’s cold. You must be freezing.”

  “I’m just going in for a quick dip.”

  “Like I was saying,” Lily continued, ignoring his response, “that’s the Swale, and that there’s the Blockhouse. Right over there, beyond where you can see is the Ferry Inn and the church. Harty church.”

  “I know.”

  Lily scowled. “Would you stop saying ‘I know’ all the time?”

  “But I do know. I’m renting one of the prefabs. I’m living in Sheppey now.”

  “Yeah, well, what you don’t know, apparently,” Lily said, smiling, “is that I can report you to the police for walking down this road naked.”

  The man, under considerable duress, tried his best to hold his own. “That’s my prefab,” he said bullishly, “I mean I’m renting it. So this here is the front of my house. And that…” he
pointed, “is the nudist beach.”

  “But this,” Lily indicated with a flourish, “this is the sign that says you must put on clothes to go beyond that point. See?”

  “But there’s no one about.”

  “I’m about. And someone else lives in that prefab. Your neighbour. He’s short and bald and he’s always well covered. He would probably also be disgusted if he saw you this way.”

  “I’m not disgusting, I’m just naked. And this is a nudist beach.”

  “That is a nudist beach. This is the public highway.”

  The man said nothing. Lily appraised him, coolly. “I’ve lived around here a long while. See those over there?”

  She pointed at a cluster of houses; small, purpose-built chalets. He nodded. “That’s where you people go.”

  “Pardon?”

  “The Hamlet. It’s fenced off, see? That’s where all the temporary people go. Nobody permanent has anything to do with them. We think they’re weird.”

  He glanced over at the chalets as though he hadn’t truly noticed them before. “Perhaps they think you’re weird.”

  “What?”

  Lily crossed her arms.

  “I’m going to the beach now. It’s too cold to stand around talking.”

  “Fine.”

  The man – he was called Luke Hamsun, he was forty-seven and a professional photographer – walked past Lily and on to the beach. Lily turned and watched his retreating torso, then she threw down her bike and went to peer inside his prefab.

  ♦

  Luke had found the idea of a shell beach appealing, initially. It brought to mind the image of Venus rising from her oyster. This whole place is practically deserted, he thought bitterly, and yet fate brings me bang into contact with Prissy Miss Moon Features.

  He wondered what Lily’s name was. He wondered whether she’d prove photogenic.

  No people. He recited this like a mantra. No people. That’s why I’m here. No drink. No fags. No people. No sex. No stress. No people. Just emptiness. That’s all.

  The sea was brown. It wasn’t even the sea, really. It was the channel. This place is truly the back of beyond, Luke thought smugly. It was grey and bleak and very flat. It was like the moon, in fact But did they have seas on the moon? He remembered hearing something similar in a way-distant geography lesson but he couldn’t decide if the seas in question were wet seas or dry seas.